


Rather Than In Their Tongues

by Lasgalendil



Series: Starlight and Song [12]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bearded Dwarf Women, Dubious Consent, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf Gender Concepts, Dwarf Women, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Dwarven Politics, Hair Braiding, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Interspecies, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, Lack of Communication, M/M, One True Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 01:57:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4286268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elf loves Dwarf.<br/>Dwarf loves Elf.</p><p>....wherein adjusting to married life as Middle-earth's most famous same-sex interspecies couple in the middle of post-war Gondorian politics isn't quite as easy as it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...wherein a bad day turns into a bad night. A Dwarf is abruptly confronted with his (lack of) communication. He resolves to do better.

Long day.

Bloody long day.

Iron late from Harad, lost a shipment of marble on the Sea of Rhûn, Longbeards and Ironfists at it again, two workers drowned when a sewer collapsed (Damn these Men and their shoddy construction! May their axes be blunt! I’ve known orcs to build a better tunnel!) and best architect laid up having her Dwarflings. Known Dwarrowdams to have them on the road, during battle, on the scaffolding and get back to work. Twins, this time, though. Stuck. Nasty work.

Both fine. Dógg fine. All fine.

[Thank Mahal.]  
[Thank Ioreth.]

But still.

We’ll be weeks behind. Hoping to get Aragorn those gates, these walls built before winter. A King needs a Kingdom, after all. Minas Tirith is no Mountain.

…it’s no forest, either.

“Gimli?” Elf is waiting. Elf is always waiting.

[Waiting alone.]

Long day. Bad day. Forgot how bloody exhausting it could be. Wandering the wilderness for three months, sick at heart, sore of foot, running the leagues of Rohan…never felt so old or tired. But I am home. Elf is here. I am not so tired—not so old—for this.

[Not so tired for him.]  
[Never too old or tired for him.]

He runs to kiss me as he always runs, always kisses. Graceful, sweetly, earnest. It is an Elf’s run, an Elf’s kiss. With all the ears and beard petting that comes with it. I suppose he means—he thinks he is—pleasing. But I am no Elf. I am a Dwarf. We have our ways.

I do not want combing. I do not need kissing. I need him. Need that tight, hot Elven arse. Need him now.

I kiss him back. Teeth and tongue, noses crushing, lips meeting, spit dripping, feel him breathing up against me, the scratch of my beard against his skin, the heat in his face, his ears beneath my hands, the hum in his throat as he tries to sing—to sing!—even now.

“Here, Elf. Want you. Need you. Now.” Need him. Inside him. No time to be gentle.

I peel him off. Shove him against the wall. Turn him. He is crying out, crying out for me, fingers scrabbling against the stones, desperate for me, desperate for more—

I pull his hair, bring him down. His clothes come off like running water, like leaves in autumn. I am a Dwarf. I am armored. No patience, no time, nothing but Elf, Elf and that perfect Elvien arse. Belt and breechcloth it is then. And then—then!—I am inside him, still and simply inside him, feeling him cry out and clench around me.

And the noises—the noises he makes!—make me harder, urge me faster and I am pounding, pounding into him breathless with every thrust, beard sticking to the sweat on his bare back, his firm thighs against my own, my cock buried deep within him.

Hands now. Hands now, too. I scratch peaked nipples, pink, flushing ears, reach down and find he is already slick and spent, play with him until he comes quickly again in my skilled fingers. He moans—how he moans!—gasps, cries, bleats, screams.

“Want you,” I bite his back. “Need you.” I write my lust with teeth and tongue against his skin. He is bruised and purple beneath my touch. Scratched and scoured by stones and nails alike. But I am not done. Not yet.

Grab his hair. Fistfuls of gold. Bring his head, his face back nearly to my own. Bite his neck, his jaw, his shoulder, his ear. His ear! I lick, lap, devour his ear and he whimpers, whimpers and wriggles back against me, shoving his ear harder and harder against my lips, my teeth, my nose, my gums, presses that perfect arse to grind against me, gripping on my arms, my legs, my arse, my hair, the wall—anything!—as his knees give out, toes curling, fingers failing, collapsing forward with me still inside him.

“Not done,” I growl to the whispered whine escaping his lips. “Not done.”

“You’re mine,” I fuck him. “Mine.”

“Mine,” I say. Every thrust. Every breath. “Mine.” Every whimper, every gasp, every plea to Mahal-damned Elbereth, every strand of mithril on his head, those sculpted legs, muscled arms, perfect Elvish arse pulsing back against me, those eyes, those lips, shivering flesh—everything that makes him him—is mine. Mine to do with what I please.

…and right now, I just want—need—to fuck him.

Closer now. Closer. I push myself in him—deep, deep within him. I am the hammer, the axe, the mortar and he my treasure to refine. I am Dwarf. I mine him for every last ounce of worth. Finally, finally, his song stops, his breath is still, no more than a slow, gasping sob. And there. We shudder together, and I come deep inside him.

“Fucking Mahal,” I grunt. “That’s good. Good, Elf.”

I pull myself out. Strength gone, all spent. I fall onto the floor next to him, grunting, gasping, panting. Won’t be able to walk until bloody morning.

[I am no Elf. I am a Dwarf. These things do not come without a cost.]

I close my eyes. He stirs beside me as a I drift off to sleep. Bed, rugs, cushions, all too far away, too far from Elf. I feel him move, undress me, press himself against me, feel his sleek, sweat-covered skin against my hair. He lays his head on my chest, nuzzles me as gently as a Dwarfling looking to suckle, fingers lost within my beard. “Elf…” I grunt. Reach a sore arm down, try to comb his Mahal-damned hair. Too tired. I pat his head instead. “Elf.”

He combs. He braids. He sings.

…I sleep.

 _i-Veleth-vîn edlothia sui doron_  
_mi echuir mîw, mi laer belt_  
_mi iavas braig, mi rhîw erui_

 _in-gwaew forod gawan_  
_in-gwaew forod gawan_

 _A! Melannen doron garan_  
_Dûg, thala, fang, ifant_  
_Sí echuir, echuir hí_  
_Adh sí linnathon_  
_Nae! i-Naergon-nîn ferthelitha._

 

“Gimli—“

I wake. “What, Elf?”

“I—you, you love me—yes?” he asks. And there is—oh, my Elf!—there is something in his sweet eyes akin to fear.

Fuck.

[Oh, fuck.]

One year. One whole year I’ve been doing this

[Been doing him.]

and in all that time I’ve never stopped, never thought, never even bloody asked—

...He doesn’t say no. _Never_ says no. Doesn’t even bloody know he _can_.

[Poor Elf. My Elf.]  
[Stupid, sodding, singing Elf.]

Stupid Dwarf. Selfish Dwarf. Damn you.

[Never again.]  
[Not until he says he wants you.]  
[And When.]

[...And How.]

“Yes, Elf.” I tell him, kiss him, comb him. “Of course, Elf.”

“ _Gin melin_ ,” he sighs. Nestles down against me, legs, arms, body, hair wound tightly up with mine. “ _Gin melin_.”

 _Love you, you stupid Elf. You singing Elf_. And It’s enough, I tell myself as I run fingers through his hair. _It’s enough for him to know. You don’t have to say it._

* * *

Our love blossoms as an oak tree

Fragile in spring, Strong in summer

Fierce in fall, Alone in winter

 

The north winds blow

The north winds blow

 

Oh! I have loved a red oak tree

Thick and strong, bearded with age

Now it is spring, now it is spring

and I will sing

Alas! So soon will come my sorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...wherein Gimli is Han Solo.

Minas Tirith.

Mahal-damned Minas Tirith.

Constant wheel-chatter. Cocks crowing. Bells tolling. Can’t be dawn and already the city’s awake. Try to roll over, bring pillows, blankets, something over face (over ears). Must’ve moved to the bed sometime overnight. Shut eyes. Try to sleep.

Can’t sleep. Fucking birds. Bones in back. Toss and turn. Hot hair everywhere. Durin’s beard! Cold feet against my balls!

“Bloody hell, Elf!" I sit up. Throw back covers—

Elf sleeping. Still sleeping.

[Not sleeping.]  
[Elves don't.]  
[Bloody weird Elves.]

Cold feet. Cold hands. Curled up next to me. Finding warmth in my beard, my hair. Cries out, cries out in his sleep—his revelry—as I pull away. Pink flush across cheeks, chest, ears. Calls my name, calls my name so sweetly, nestles against the pillows where my warmth still settles.

And he is— _interesting_.

Elf always says his dreams are merely memory. Clear. Vivid. Revisiting the past. I wonder which night, which kiss, which fuck he dreams of, then. Cheeks flush. Ears twitch. Nipples pink and strained against his pale skin, bright eyes so far away. Hard just watching him. Have half a mind to fuck him, fuck him again, fuck him here while he still dreams—

No. Won’t. Said I wouldn’t. Won’t touch him again. Not until he wants me to. Not until he’s awake. Until he’s ready.

Watch his ears. His lips. Way he moves his mouth. Think of all the things I can do to make him move—make him gasp, cry out—so. Smell of hair. Taste of sweat. Warmth of that hot arse, soft lips, against me. Feel of him shuddering as he comes. That’s it—that’s it. Hands are a poor replacement for Elf—such pretty, perfect, perfectly fuckable Elf!—too rough, too harsh, but better than nothing.

[Watching Elf better than no Elf.]

Watch his mouth. Mewling. Sucking. Licking lips, teeth. Ears twitch in time. Move my hand, run fingertip over head of cock like his tongue, imagine him on me, around me, against me, those soft lips kissing against root and stem, think of hands on his ears, tangling his hair, moving him as I will.

 But he stirs. Woken Elf, damnit.

He blinks. Back. The change is instant. One moment he is so very far away, then next, wide awake and with me. He is sated. Smiling. Happy. He stretches like a cat, long limbs unfurling, back arching, lean muscles rippling under his taut skin.

Want. Do want.

[…Want badly.]

No need. He sees my state, sees my hands, wordlessly brings my fingers to his still-flushed ears, and bends to me. Takes me into him, licking, kissing, nuzzling, suckling at me, one clear, clever eye winking up at me out of the curtains of his golden hair, singing, singing all the while.

“Elf—“ I try to say, to stop him. “Elf—“

But words won’t come. Can’t think. Can’t speak. Can only grunt. Watch. Thrust hips against his mouth, hold his ears, hold his hair, move him against me. Lips on cock. Hair on thighs. He traces me with his tongue. Nips. Licks. Soothes. Worries. Teases.

I am hard. Hot. Slick. Ready. “Elf—“ I am close. So close. “Elf—“

“Legolas.” I have come.

Watch. Feel him swallow, soft throat filling and smoothing. He licks me from his lips. Kisses me clean. “Love you,” Elf says, sighs, sings. Nuzzles lips. Nose. Ears. Eyes. “Love you.”

…Elf waits.

[Mahal’s great cock, Dwarf! Just say the words! How hard could it be?]  
[Coward.]

“I know.”


	3. Chapter 3

Fucking Dwarf.

[Fucking Elf.]

Said you wouldn’t, said you’d talk about this, let him know. Said you wouldn’t touch him again. Not until he wanted it.

Liar. A Dwarf’s only as good as his word. Mahal help me, I’ll talk to him. Say something, anything!

[…At least say you bloody love him.]

He’s bruised and bitten. My love marks over his back, his neck, his chest. Feel awful. Fucking Dwarf, what do you know?

Not good at this. Never good at this. I am a Dwarf. Longbeard. Firebeard. We fight, we fuck. We make good bedfellows. Poor lovers. Never did have a chance to court him—would never have courted him. Elf. Too pretty. Too strange. Hated him, wanted him, could never have him. Hated him, hated me. She offered him, seven times she offered him, and seven times I refused.

…then he decides we’re bloody married. Been fucking him ever since. On the Road. Off to War. Might never see the end of it. No time, no space, no need to talk, just my cock inside him, against him, comb him, let him sing his sodding songs to stars. And for a time—for all that time—it was good enough.

[ _We_ were good enough.]

 

No more. Awkward enough taking him home to Erebor. Amad, Adad. Couldn’t wait to get on the road again, couldn’t wait for things to be back the way they were. But they weren’t. They aren’t. They’ll never be again.

He’s an Elf. I’m a Dwarf. There were always bound to be consequences.

[You knew this. You did.]  
[From the first time you fucked him and he cried, thought there’d be a child.]  
[You’ve known. Done nothing.]  
[Damn you.]

I don’t—I can’t—don’t know why I can’t bloody talk to him. He makes it hard, makes me hard. Always mean to. Always try. Always fuck him instead. And it’s—I’m—we’re—falling slowly apart. Can’t keep going. Can’t fuck him, can’t not fuck him, out of guilt. For being away. For being silent. For being Dwarf.

[For being me.]

Damn you, Gimli. Fucking Dwarf. Too much Firebeard in your blood. Just say the sodding words already. The ones he wants to hear. Lets you fuck him, hurt him, scare him—all for what? Some kissing, cuddling, combing?

[Costs you nothing.]  
[Costs him all.]

Then he wakes, wakes and sucks you. Singing, smiling all the while. Hard not to think it’s forgotten. Forgiven.

[Isn’t. Doesn’t.]

It’s not—we don’t—some Dwarves do—fucking Stonefoots, Stiffbeards still bloody binding, veiling, chaining—but wives

[Husbands. He’s as much a warrior as you.]

Husbands, wives, lovers—they aren’t _afraid_. Aren’t humiliated. ‘Udash. Dashar. Dashel. Man’s work, that’s what that is. Not Ranalâl. Not Marrannalûn. Not me. Won’t be. Mahal as my witness it won’t be me!

Can’t go on. Can’t continue. We won’t survive.

[I won’t survive.]

Bloody, fucking Dwarf. Bloody, fucking coward. What is it—why is it—you won’t say?

…I’m afraid. Afraid for him. Of him. Afraid he’ll leave me. Afraid he’ll wake up one day and see me beside him, old, ugly, see me for who I am: a Dwarf, and flee. Repent. Sail. That every time I close my eyes, every time I see him, kiss him, fuck him—it will be the last.

[I hate him for it.]

I fear for him. Alone. Forever. Fear the sea will be bent, the way will be shut. He’ll be stuck here, the last Elf on Earth, all alone, never fading, never dying until the world has ended.

I’m afraid for him. For us. Afraid I’ve damned him.  
…Afraid I’ve damned us both.

[Can’t mark him. Pierce him.]  
[He has to sail.]  
[Must forget.]

I love you, you daft, sodding Elf. You stupid, fucking Elf. Is that what you want to hear? Can’t say it. Not yet. Not—not _after_. Must do this for you, Elf. Must do it right.

Never had time to court him. Ask him. As scared—as naive, as innocent—as he is, he has always been the braver of us. He came to me. Kept coming back. However timidly, however awkwardly, he has always taken that first step. Placing hair in my hands, begging _please, please my love, just please_. Asking. Seeking.

Trying.

Teaching.

Been too busy. Too busy. Busy being architect. Smith. Warrior. Emissary. Lord. Busy building, peace-keeping, being diplomat, advisor, representative of the Stonehelm to see. Been too damned busy. Too damned Dwarf.

[He has time. He lives forever.]  
[You don’t.]

“Elf,” I say, and he looks at me, eyes tearing, ears twitching, hot and red beneath my hands. Flick. Once, twice, seven times. Panting now, whining now. Take the points. Pinch. Squeeze with forefinger and thumb. Flesh indents, nails bend. Ears blanch white, go bloodless as he writhes. Let go. Swollen now, swollen and pink, the pain of it, he gasps, cries out, rubs against sheets, hands, beard, anything!—as it floods back in. I lick. Blow. Cool them, soothe them—soothe him—as he clings.

“Elf, I—“

[—Can’t.]  
[Don’t know how.]

Kiss him. Kiss his ears, his hair, his hands. Hold him close. Hold him tight. Sleek skin, long limbs nestled perfectly against my heat, my hair, my girth. He didn’t teach me this, at least. This we learned together.

[I can learn. Still learn. Not too old, not too gruff, not too Dwarf to learn to love him.]  
[My Elf is a patient teacher.]

 

* * *

 

Neo-Khuzdul from The Dwarrow Scholar:

‘Udash-greater/greatest of hates  
Dashar-hate of all hates  
Dashel-supreme hate

Marrannalûn-he who continues to abuse.  
Ranalâl-one who is an abuser


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...well, this got angsty and political pretty quickly.

Bloody weird Elves.

Bloody weird Elves and their bloody weird habits. Their bloody weird _hair_.

I’m no skilled weaver, no embroiderer, but I’m a Dwarf. A _hairy_ Dwarf. Born with a beard. I can braid, damnit. Been braiding all my life. But his hair—his golden hair—is just so damned _thin_. Sleek, certainly. Lovely, unquestionably. Soft, silken, yes, yes. But a bloody pain in the arse to braid. Slips from the fingers, no curl, no kink, no body to it, won’t hold a fucking thing. No beard. Missing half the hair I’d have to worth with.

But he is my One. My Only. He is mine to bead. Mine to braid, and this morning I find I must. No hasty warrior’s plait today. No, today—everyday—he will wear a lover’s crown. The besotted creature can spend days just combing me, surely—surely—I can give him this hour. I’m a Dwarf. Don’t know how to say it. Not aloud. But this—this!—I can do. Let everyone who sees him, Longbeard, Firebeard, Broadbeam, Ironfist, Stiffbeard, Blacklock, Stonefoot, let them see him and know. I am a Dwarf. He is an Elf. A Wood Elf.

…he is Mine. Mine alone.

[And I am not ashamed.]

Find his comb, the fine mithril comb I made him. It’s sharp, cutting. Parts his hair like diamond on glass. Seven sweeping sections. I pin them, each held in place with slivers of silver and mother-of-pearl. Comb each out until it shines like molten gold in the morning sun. How he hums! Sings! Tries to turn, to comb, to braid me. I pull my beard away, kiss his reaching hands instead of swatting. He laughs.

 _i-finnel-nîn malthen sui i-amrûn_  
_i-chervenn, i-chathod i nin mêl hí_  
_i-veleth-vín sui i-amrûn_  
_i-velethron-nîn sui i-amrûn-hen veren_  
_E thinnatha_  
_i-finnath-nîn—i-veleth-vîn—malthen sui i-amrûn_  
_A! Arien! Uirheviadh nan Annûn_  
_Anor uirhenia nan Annûn_  
_Ach tirithon i-Amrûn_  
_A! Meleth Velithath_  
_gin esteliathon_  
_Esteliathanc i-Amrûn_

He is content, content to just be combed.

…Content only to be combed.

Love you, you stupid, silly creature.  
Love you, you stupid, singing Elf.

[My Elf.]

 Divide each section. Seven times seven again. Work with fingers, with fine teeth of comb, bring golden strands into locks, locks into braids high on his head, bring them loosely cascading down, now braided again into a crown of living gold. His beads I place at the end of each plait, gleaming freshwater pearls in a myriad of colors. I pin it with seven more, then seven times seven again. Next a necklace of shells, pearls, opalized bone. All stone. All living. All Elf. As if the hands of Mahal and *Yesthar had forged it together. I saw it as if through the eye of Mahal, found, bought, collected every one. Strung on wires of lace-like mithril, fine as a strand of Elven hair. It catches the light, the rays of early dawn, sends reflections scintillating, dancing along the walls with his every breath.

 _“Ai!”_ he gasps. _“Bain!”_

Bloody forgets. Don’t speak his Sindarin. But this—like all his cries when I’ve shagged him senseless—is understandable enough. Been saving it for a special occasion. Fuck me. Elf is…Elf. Doesn’t remember one day to the next, no Durin’s Day, no Name Days, no Yule Tide, not even our (rather odd) wedding.

 _“A! Gimli! A!”_ he sighs. _“Nauglamir!”_

Nauglamir? Interesting. Very interesting.

[Bit rude.]  
[But Elf and I are past all that.]  
[…I hope.]

He sees. Knows. His cheeks, eartips flush. That look again—that fear. That need. “No—Gimli, I—“

“It’s alright, Elf.”

“I—see—yes?” his voice is tight, fingers reaching for the covering of his copper mirror.

Not done. Not finished. Needs something else. Needs more. “Not yet,” I kiss him. “Not yet.”

Would leave. Get it myself. Don’t—can’t—leave Elf. Too many appointments, people scrabbling about after me. Can barely get through markets, not a moment’s peace. No, this—this space we share—it is the only haven I have. I am Gimli Gloinson. Dwarf of many journeys. Can light a fire in the rain and dark. Can fend for myself—for Elf—in the wild. Trapped here in the city like a bird in a Mahal-damned cage.

Have to use a bloody page.

…have seven of them. Other Houses, didn’t think it fair, didn’t think it right that Longbeards should get to serve the Emissary of the King, all fighting, bickering worse than Elves and Dwarves. Sodding mess. Found a solution that made everyone happy.

[Except me.]  
[…and Ironfists.]  
[Ironfists never happy.]

Didn’t need a page. Didn’t want a page. Have fucking seven of them. I fling the doors open. Up they jump! “Msizi?”

“My Lord!” Spear high in salute, skin shield at the ready. More suited to bodyguard, our little Blacklock.

“Yi?”

Clumsy curtsey, bent at waist, hands together, that odd way all Stonefoots do. “Lord Gimli!”

“Rotha?”

“At your service, and your family’s!”

[Love a Broadbeam. Always so polite.]

“Balin?”

“‘bout bloody time,” Balin—Dwalin’s lad—pouts. “How many times you planning on fucking him today?”

“Balin?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t make me write your father.”

“Yes, sir. No, Sir. Of course not, sir,” then, in a whisper. “Bloody Elf-fucker.”

“ _Balin_ …”

“Sir,” he sighs.

“Ólavur?” He pounds his chest, belts out a war-cry. Proper Firebeard, that one.

“Na’il?”

Our skinny Stiffbeard bows, bobbing. “Seven blessings of Our Father the Smith (Praise him!) upon you this morning, O most honored—“

“Yes, yes, Seven blessings to you and all that.” I wave him off. Boy can go on all Mahal-damned day.

 “…and, er, You. 'Page'.” Bloody Ironfists. No outer names!

“Present.”

[Talkative as rock, the lot of them.]

“Alright, you lot. Enough of that! It’s Gimli,” being the Stonehelm’s representative to the King and Realms of Men has its bloody drawbacks. “Just Gimli, understand? Now, you lot: flowers!”

“…My Lord?” I frown. Our little Blacklock’s eyes go wide. “My…Gimli?” she squeaks.

Elf laughs. Like falling water. Gentle and sweet. Appears in doorway behind me, clad in nothing but hair and jewels. “No, Msizi. He is _my_ Gimli.”

[Bloody Elves and their bloody nudity.]  
[Not that I mind. Like him naked.]  
[My Elf. Mine.]  
[Not theirs.]

She flushes. Bows. The clay-covered braids of her young beard brushing the tiles, face and bare chest flushing deep purple against her black skin. “Amahle! Nimir! Did…did this one not understand?”

Don’t speak her Southron. Can manage of a bit of some Easterling if I have to. To bloody Hell with it. We’re Dwarves. There’s one language we can all understand: “Nengâr!”

...They gasp, stare at Elf.

 _“What?”_ Balin huffs. _“It’s just Legolas. He’s an Elf of fucking Erebor and Gimli's husband, for Mahal’s sake. We can speak the Tongue of the Fathers in front of him if we bloody well want to.”_ And with that, the others regain their composure quickly enough.

[Cheeky little bugger. Coming to my aid!]  
[Not that Elf can understand a word…]

 _“That’s right, you lot!_ ” I tell them, flip them each a piece of silver. _“Flowers. The freshest, most beautiful flowers for my Elf! A bottle of wine to whoever brings them the quickest…and the winner gets to go with me on the scaffolds today.”_

And they’re off. Our little flock of Dwarflings is off, Msizi taking the lead, as always. My Elf watches them fondly, strange, sad smile on his face. I know—I shouldn’t let him—he thinks of them as children. _Our_ children. The ones we can never have.

[Poor Elf. Sad Elf. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give you.]  
[Will give you everything you ever wanted, dreamed of.]  
[Everything but this.]

Let him pick them. No one else could. Bloody Houses, bloody infighting. All trying to pawn their heirs and princes at us. Didn’t need a spoiled, pompous arsehole, wanted someone willing to work.

[Work with me.]  
[….work with Elf.]

Dwalin’s boy for the House of Durin, because of his assistance to King Dain (may his hammer be swift, may Mahal keep his soul) during the War Under the Trees…that and someone needed to keep an eye on the little bugger, threatened to smuggle himself here to Gondor if he couldn’t ride with us on the wain. Ólavur for the Firebeards, because he had the strongest axe blow of them all. Rotha for the Broadbeams, because the Guild Master said they were the best at weaving, made the most beautiful, intricate rugs and tapestries of any dwarrowchild in Ered Luin. “Page” from the Ironfists, because the poor lad was the only one from the Iron Hills who'd volunteer, and Na’il from the Stiffbeards with his strange hair-covering, because of his penmanship and paint. Lad illuminated the most beautiful hand-copied manuscript of  _The Seven Blessings_ and _The Seven Prayers of the Seven Fathers of the Seven Houses_ in all of Near Harad. Fierce Msizi of the Blacklocks, because she sang the sweetest song and threw her short spear the furthest. The little dwarrowdam’s half in love with him, I’m sure of it.

[Bloody Dwarves bitched and moaned.]

[Elf was fairer than any Dwarf.]

[To each House their own.]

…and Yi. Little Yi because of all the Stonefoots with their strange yellow skin, their straight air, sparse beards and nut-shaped eyes, she was the only one who insisted her litter be carried all the way over to him, sat up in all her silks and cushions and simply said, “Please.”

[Yi, I think, must be his favorite.]

“Yi is last,” my Elf says sadly. “She is always last.”

“Bloody Stonefoots,” I grunt. “Binding feet.”

“I—Eowyn says they are getting better.”

“Aye. But Ioreth says they will never fully heal.” She’ll be in pain. Every day. Every step. For the rest of her life.

He watches me for awhile. And that look—that fear (damn you, Dwarf!)—resurfaces. “Why—Gimli, my love. Why do they do it?”

“Don’t bloody know.” Binding, Chaining. Veiling. Thank Mahal most of us have moved past it.

“But you are a Dwarf. Surely you understand?”

“They’re bloody Stonefoots, not Longbeards. Not Firebeards…not, not Wood Elves.” I try to explain. “It would be like me asking you about those fucking Noldor. Elves, yes. But not, not your Elves. Not your Silvans.”

“But—my Gimli. You are their King? Lord? Yes?” he wonders. “Surely you could do something?”

“It’s bloody barbaric, Elf. But it’s theirs. Their tradition,” I sigh. “Not my place.”

…he thinks my inkings, my piercings, my—my _cutting,_ is strange. Don’t have the heart to tell him what’s been done to Msizi.

“You will…you will do nothing?”

No, Elf. Not nothing. “Used to be all of ‘em did it. Now only the richest, oldest families—you understand? It’s dying. Slowly, but it’s dying.”

[Shit.]  
[Stupid Dwarf.]  
[Reminds him of us. Reminds him of _you_.]

“It’s…stopping. Fewer and fewer families do it. And even Yi’s family—old family, important family—they unbound her for this. For us. We were more important—it was seen a higher honor—than small feet. More and more will stop,” I take his hand. “You’ll see.”

Talking. Talking is better. Talking is good.

[Still need to talk to him.]  
[Later.]  
[Just…later.]

We talk so rarely these days. And as suddenly as it started, it’s stopped. Just he an I. Elf and Dwarf. Alone together. No Ring. No War. No common ground.

Our hands fall apart.

“I—I may comb you, now?” he finally asks.

[Asks.]  
[Fucking Dwarf. Is that so hard?]

“Not yet, Elf.” I tell him. “Not done. Not done with you.” See it again. That look in his eyes. Wary—timid. Afraid. He thinks—he _must_ think—

“Going to dress you,” I tell him tenderly. “Dress you, Elf. Wrap you in silk so no one can see you—no one but me. You’re mine.” I kiss him, tell him, kiss him again. “Mine.”

Fucking Gondor. Have dressing-maids. Ladies in waiting. Groomsmen, butlers, barbers. Servants. Don’t need any. Don’t want any. No one touches, no one braids, no one combs, no one dresses Elf but me. And to see him like this, to clothe him, adorn him, with the works of my hands or gifts of my giving—it is nearly as good, makes me nearly as hard as undressing him.

This. This I can do. Everyday. I can dress him.

Stained silk tunic, blue as sky, green as sea, grey as rain, as close to the magic of the Lady’s cloaks as Rhûn could manage, sleeves embroidered with willow leaves, dancing herons with their long legs, pearls and glass bells beading the hems, the wide waist belt, tinkling as he walks. Silver stockings of single-stranded knitted silk like gossamer in moonlight. Trousers of white kid’s wool, thin as cotton, soft as dew. Shoes of Kine’s calf the color of sun-bleached sand, fastened with iridescent mother-of-pearl.

“May I see yet?” he asks, fingering sleeves, bodice, boots, touching himself with delight.

“Not yet.” Bracelets, now. Up over his hands high onto his archer’s lean arms. Hammered mithril and a thousand diamonds, squares of cut glass, polished mother-of pearl, edged with beaded pearls of every hue.

“Now,” I say, sliding the silken cover from his mirror. “Now you may see.”

“ _Ai! Ulmo!_ ” he cries, “Gimli—it is too much!”

“You’re a Prince. Prince of at the Sindar. Prince of the Elves. And mine. My Elf. Husband to the King's Emissary. I want you to look it.”

“I—“ he flushes beautifully. “I do not know what others will think.”

“Fuck the Noldor,” I tell him. “Fuck your Silvans. Fuck everyone. You’re beautiful. You’re mine.”

He bites his lips. Stares at himself. Laughs a little. “I do not think even Aragorn dresses so.”

[Bloody, beautiful Elf. Fascinated with mirrors.]  
[Have to keep them covered or there’d be no peace.]

“That Ranger?” I scoff. “If his bloody Elf Queen doesn’t care to dress him any better than on the road, what of it? You’re an Elf. _My_ Elf. You’ll dress how you damn well please.” He flushes, nose, cheeks, ears pink as the first fingers of dawn on the East face of Erebor.

“Take these.” Three small rings of smooth, sheeted Mithril for seven fingers.

“Gimli—“

“And these.” Seven rings of silver and pearl on seven fingers.

“Gimli!"

“This—“ a net of chain mithril spun light as gossamer, glossed with pearl and bells of glass, draped elegantly over his head, his hair, his ears, his neck

“No more!” he begs, breathless.

“And lastly—“ clips of mithril, set with abalone and pearl, carved in the shape of the wing of a gull, balanced perfectly on the very tips of his flushing, pointed ears.“There.” I say.

“…and they say the Dwarves are greedy,” he whispers. Kisses me softly. Kisses me languidly. Makes that sound—that whimpering sound!—he knows will make me hard, beads and bells making music with every moment he makes against me—

I sigh. “No, Elf.”

“Gimli?” his eyes are wide with concern.

Pull myself away. Take his hand. “Elf—Legolas. I—“

…Knock on the door. “My Lord,” Siv enters our chambers univited. Bows.

[Fucking Siv.]

“Mahal damnit!” We bloody grew up together in the Blue Mountains, now my Official Ambassador Assistant or some such. Constant hornet in my beard! “How many times, Siv?”

“My Lord,” they say again. “You are the Emissary of King Thorin III Stonehelm, Dain’sson, Heir of Durin, Lord of the Longbeards, and King Under the Mountain—“

“I know his bloody title, Siv.”

“—and I will treat you with the respect your position is due,” they conclude.

“How _exceedingly_ kind of you, Siv.”

They clear their throat, finger their beard. Shuffle their Mahal-damned scrolls. “My Lord, the emissaries of the Ironfists are still waiting, the Masters of Stone would like to discuss the issue of the Pelennor walls and the recent shipping incident, the so-called King of Umbar would like a word concerning the Stonefoots’ overland spice trade, the Rohirrim would like to discuss your request for more sheep and ponies, and the overseers for the Gate project here in Minas Tirith—“

“We’re already weeks behind,” I sigh. “It can wait.”

“My Lord, the Ironfists, they’ve been waiting for days—“

“Fuck ‘em,” I grunt, still holding Elf. “What’s a few hours more?”

My Elf chortles.

[He is an Elf. I suppose he finds this funny.]  
[Hours, years, centuries…what difference does it make to an Elf?]

“My Lord, these are important guests here to discuss important matters.”

“Sod this, Siv,” I growl. “My Elf is important, too.”

“Very well, my Lord,” they say. “I will inform the gathered throng of the Ironfists, Rohirrim, the Guild Masters, Architects and the King of Umbar that you and your… _consort_ ,” their eyes flick to my Elf, “are currently indisposed.” Bloody Broadbeams. Been marrying men or women to each other for centuries now. Couldn’t care less. More open than most when it comes to things like this—things like _us_. But fucking, marrying—loving—an Elf? _This_ Elf? Unforgivable.

[Bloody grudges.]  
[Bloody Dwarves.]

“Thank you, Siv. Your assistance is invaluable. But the damned Elf is my husband before the eyes of Mahal as you bloody well know,” I seethe. “He’s beaded and braided. My One. I’ll thank you to get it fucking right.”

“Of course, my Lord,” they bow.

“Husband!” I shout after them. “Use that word exactly, Siv!”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“I like them—them, yes?” my Elf asks me, now combing my beard with gentle hands. “They are so polite.”

Daft, sodding Elf. I roll my eyes. “They’re sodding _rude_ , Elf.”

“Yes, but my Gimli—don’t you see? They are so polite only to be even ruder than you. I did not know such a thing to be possible.”

[Not as daft as I had thought.]

“…it is—funny?—yes?”

But I never have time to answer. “Nimir! Nimir!” Yi’s high voice warbles. “I’m back! I’m back!” She is dancing, jumping with excitement, silks and scraggly beard billowing behind her, an armful of pale pink Lebennin lilies and wild white roses from Imloth Melui clutched tightly to her chest.

“You are faster every day!” my Elf laughs, pulling her up in his arms and off her tiny feet.

I am impressed. “Some wine for you, Yi! Our best wine. Why not?”

“…and some for Msizi as well, I think.” My Elf insists. “Yes?”

Oh?

…Oh. Oh! Of course.

[Dim-witted Dwarf.]

“You can come in now, Msizi.” I call to the empty hall.

“You’re not mad?” the Blacklock emerges shyly, spear in hand. Born hunter. Could nearly surprise an Elf!

“Mad? Why should either Lord Gimli or I be mad?” my Elf smiles, offers her a slender hand. They clasp, dark on light, large and small, and he kisses hers. “You have worked together, have you not?”

…A Blacklock and a Stonefoot. Who would have thought? Perhaps having seven pages isn’t such a burden after all.

[Still a pain in the arse.]

“We did, Nimir!”

“You are lovely today, Nimir!”

“Your dress is beautiful, Nimir!”

“Your hair is braided, Nimir! It is so very different today!”

"May this one touch it, Nimir?" our little Blacklock asks boldly.

“One day I will have braids like yours, Nimir!”

He laughs. “You will?”

They nod. Eager. Earnest.

“And what do my braids say?”

“You don’t know?” Yi asks in wide-eyed surprise.

“You’re silly, Nimir!” Msizi laughs.

“Very silly.” Yi nods.

He looks between us, helpless. “I must seem so,” he kneels, puts a slender hand beneath their chins, their soft, child’s beards. “Tell me, what do they mean?”

“They say Lord Gimli loves you very, very much!”

Tears. Bright shock. Spangling his face. Wipes them vehemently. Stands. “Wine,” he mutters. “Have to get—your wine.”

“Elf—“

_“Leithio nin!”_

Don’t speak his bloody Sindarin. But the meaning was clear enough. I watch him go, watch him go, heart breaking wish I had the balls to say the damned words, call them out after him.

[Love you, you daft sodding Elf.]  
[You stupid, fucking Elf.]  
[Until the Final War is won and the World rebuilt, I love you, Legolas.]  
[I love you.]

Cough. Clear my throat. Try not to sob.

[Coward.]

But there are two young dwarrowdams watching me, doe-eyed and longing. Sighing lovingly. Mooning up at me, young and stupid. “If you ever love someone,” I say stiffly. “And not all Dwarves do, but Blacklock or Stonefoot, Dwarrow, Man, Elf--man, woman--I don’t care. You bloody fucking tell them.”

“Yes, My—yes, Gimli,” Msizi says, confused.

“We will, Gimli!” Yi promises.

Soft ring of bells. Whisper of silk. Hear a cork uncapped. Turn.

Elf. My Elf. Pouring wine calmly as if nothing has happened. “Here,” he says gently. Generously. “You may both have some. It is a good wine. Dorwinion. From—“ he stops. Bites his lip.

“From the Greenwood?” Msizi prompts.

“Yes,” he says. “From the Greenwood. The halls of the Elvenking. You will like it, I think. It is sweet. Sweet but strong,” he cautions. “A very small glass, yes?”

“Is this _the wine?_ ” they both ask him, enthralled.

“ _The wine?_ ” he asks, confused, none of them speaking in their first—or (Mahal help me!) even second!—tongue.

“The wine the Elves drank,” Yi rushes. “The Elves who slept while Lord Gimli’s Adad and The Oakenshield escaped!”

“And slew the dragon!”

“And found the Arkenstone!”

“And reclaimed the Mountain!” Msizi concludes, dizzily.  “The Mountain! The Mountain! Azsâlul’abad!” They cry.

“Yes,” he kisses them, lies to them, lovingly. “Yes, _in-ngoegin-nîn,_ my little ones. This is the very wine.”

* * *

“Do you miss it,” I ask later, weaving fresh flowers through his hair. “Home?”

He doesn’t answer. Plays with the beads in his many braids. Looks out across the city—across the Anduin, towards the Sea and Shore and beyond even towards the Far Shore that one day will take him from me forever.

[He hears the gulls.]  
[Hears them even now.]

“This is my home,” he says. “Now. For a time.”

Time. Times. Time and a Half. It will never be enough. “A short time, perhaps.”

“The same time,” my Elf kisses me. “The same time as everyone gets, my Love: a life.”

* * *

  **Author's Notes:**

**Legolas' song:**

My braids are golden as the sunrise  
The husband, the dwarf who loves me is here  
Our love is like the sunrise  
My lover is like this bold sunrise  
He will fade into evening  
All my braids—our love—are golden like the sunrise  
Oh! Arien! Ever you sail to the West  
The sun wanders to the Sunset  
Yet I will watch the East.  
Oh! My Love of all Loves  
I will hope for you  
We will hope for the Sunrise.

*Yesthar: (Khuzdul) Supreme Wife, head-canon Dwarves’ name for Yavanna.

Ai! Bain!: (Sindarin) Oh how beautiful!  
A! Gimli! A! Nauglamir (Sindarin): Oh, Gimli, Oh! Necklace of the Dwarves!

[Most beautiful piece of jewelry in Middle-earth ever. Belonged to Finrod, given to Thingol, attached the Silmaril to it. Short story: Dwarves killed him, Doriath was sacked, Green-Elves, Ents, and Beren killed all of the Dwarves but two and the treasure of Doriath was lost. Luthien wore it until she died, then it was given to Dior. Cue Noldor, Kinslaying. Basically the main (but not first) of many reasons the Dwarves and Elves don’t get along. Basically the main (but not first) of many reasons Sindarin/Silvan Elves like Legolas and his father fucking hate the Valar-damned Noldor. Let’s just say it’s a contentious bit of history, shall we?]

Amahle: (Zulu) “Beautiful One”, standing in for Southron  
Nimir: (Adunaic) “Beautiful One”, common term for Elf in the former colonies of Númeanor.  
Nengâr: (Khuzdul) Flowers  
Leithio nin: (Sindarin) Let go of me  
Azsâlul’abad: (Khuzdul) The Lonely Mountain/Erebor  
in-ngoegin-nîn: (Sindarin) My little dwarves


End file.
